Cameroon

Ever since Roger Milla scored and danced at Italia ’90 Cameroon has held a mystical hold over my travel plans. It was fitting then that on the first night there we spent it in a border town drinking far too much and taking in the finale of the Africa Cup of Nations, which to our great relief ended in Zambia triumphing over a team led by the continent’s most petulant idiot (that would be Didier Drogba if you needed clarification). Although this was a great way to start a country there was much trepidation in the sub-conscious over the state of the worst road in the west that we had to attack the next morning.

With hangovers firmly in place it was time to hit the road from Ekok to Mamfi in the south-west province of Cameroon; a most infamous road in overlanding circles for the indescribable dire state of it. I did not believe the stories that I had been told at a bar in Eccebat (Turkey) in 2005 and really had to see it for myself (another genuine reason for the madness of the West African Trans)

. Prior to attempting the road there was an incredible amount of bravado in hoping that we would repeat the Oasis trip of 2009 when they were stuck for a week in one bog hole; in hindsight the entire truck was probably incredibly happy to traverse with no discernible incident. The one thing that I did take away from the journey to Mamfi was the fact that a certain owner from a certain overlanding company had certainly not been “bigging up” a story in the Boomerang Bar in Eccebat; some of the dried out bog holes came at least eight feet up the side of the truck! Emptying them before entering would have been soul destroying and the unrelenting heat and humidity would have broken even the hardiest person.

With the road to Mamfi firmly behind us we could look forward to a country that offered so much… and certainly did not fail to deliver! The deliveries came thick and fast like a raging Michael Holding; I’m not even sure where to start, but here goes anyway…

Incredible beaches; Best boulangerie in all the world; craziest man ever to abuse the truck (and only man ever to be abused back); Best spit-roasted pig(let)s in three years of driving Africa according to Nev; Intimidating pygmies (oxymoron I know, but nonetheless it makes the list); Most amazing lunch time swimming hole; Finest man ever to represent Britain abroad; Street meat at 0900, street meat at midnight, street meat at 0230; Burgers rivaling GBK; Masturbating primate (OK; so this was in Nigeria but definitely worth a mention); Most outrageous camp owner EVER; Bar in no-man’s land; Anglo-Franco banter; Verdant rain-forest penetrated by wild rivers; 100’s club (thanks Shaun; incredible effort); Haka practice with school children; Under-educated, educated, over-educated, what’s education?!?!; Truck party; and finally, the end of the pedantic whinging!

There is absolutely no way that I can bring myself to write about all that was incredible (and disturbing) about this wonderful country; so I am going to leave you with the story of the camp owner.

As Lisa does, she strikes up conversations with random people all over the continent (being bilingual probably helps) and Limbe was no different. On returning from the arduous, knee destroying, calf tightening heights of Mount Cameroon she found herself in deep conversation with the editor-in-chief of some good-to-do monthly publication in Cameroon (as well as Nigeria and other West Africa countries). By the end of this conversation he was planning a spread on our journey following his own journey to the top of Mount Cameroon. The date was set, the location was set and all we had to do was meet the man (and his underlings) in Yaoundé.

On arriving in Yaoundé we pulled into the pleasantly described Presbyterian Guest House (pleasantly described in various travel publications) to find a lush lawn leading to a gothic style mini-mansion where upgrades were available (only to singles and married couples), flush toilets were also available (only for #2’s), electricity (only until 2200… enforced with an iron fist); it was also where the lady of the manor resided. To our great surprise there was also a 40 foot shipping container nestled to one side of the vast lawn, which had been converted into the most useful of all things – a bar!

With consideration to where we were staying; the first thing that raised eyebrows at the campground (apart from the aforementioned) was the enormous amount of alcohol being consumed out of this 40 foot container. People were flocking there from who knows where by the time we had set up our tents, put up the rain cover off of the truck and started the fire. Believe me, we are all up for a good bar at a campsite, but it seemed quite strange given the rules of the iron fisted lady. What was more astounding was the very distinct smell of dope emanating from the container; on entering this den to purchase our evening beer it was more astounding to see not only the size of the joints being smoked but the fact that almost everyone was partaking, including the barman who is obviously employed by the iron fisted lady.

Thankfully the evening passed without incident, which considering how much was being consumed by the regulars who flocked to the den is a surprise (intimidating Pygmies comes to mind).

Yaoundé is an incredible place (one of my favourite cities in West Africa) and the morning sunshine did not disappoint; highlighting the incredibly lush rainforest covered hills that the city was built on. The vast lawn and morning sunshine also provided the perfect setting for Ivy (our qualified truck Yoga instructor) to keep up her practice. All over the continent the locals have found this most fascinating, and it would appear the residents of the campsite did as well; peering from random windows in the mini-mansion at random intervals for sustained periods of time; clearly thinking that everyone at the campsite was oblivious to this strange behaviour!

The following morning the weather was not quite so kind and instead of the hills being doused in glorious sunshine they were being made greener by the incredible bursts of rain that had come in the night. This led Ivy into the confines of the mini-mansion to find a secluded spot (which she did) to practice her Yoga. Less than five minutes after finding this secluded spot she was back sheltering under the rain cover attached to the truck; where the journalist that Lisa had met (and his underlings) were also gathered. Poor Ivy was furious and went into great detail how the lady of the house had barged in and told her that “Yoga was a pagan activity and was not welcome in the house of god” (although as you will remember drinking copious amounts of booze by local residents and smoking enormous joints seems to be fine). I don’t actually think it was the comments that made Ivy and the rest of us furious but the way that it was approached… anyway, that was the iron fisted ladies prerogative… but it was to get so much better…

In the meantime Lisa had introduced the journalist to some of us and he was straight to work interviewing us with well-constructed questions trying to prise as much information out as to “why on earth you would give up the comforts of the west to travel in a truck, sleeping in tents for months on end etc…”. Of course we were all relishing the opportunity to tell him what a great time we were having! When it came to Shaun (the bearded man from numerous stories and photos) the interview continued as it had for the rest of us; except for the flash of red out of the corner of my eye. The lady of the manor was charging towards the interviewer and interviewee with great gusto; at which point she reached in and confiscated the man’s dictaphone and stormed off ranting in some broken English. The man was dumbfounded and stood quite motionless (shocked) as to what had just happened. This is when it got really quite interesting…

After the initial shock, he thought that we had actually been mugged and took chase after the lady, catching her just as she was to enter the inner sanctum of her mini-mansion. At this point he reached for what was rightly his and in the furor that followed managed to help break his dictaphone. When this was achieved he grabbed the lady by the arm and went to turn her; then out of nowhere the silent Swiss inhabitant of the mini-mansion came at him with a crowbar! The crowbar missed and the lady made it into her house to grab an umbrella and again threaten the poor journalist… the police were then called to the premises to question the man about assaulting the iron fisted lady of the manor.

No harm came to the man; but some important dignitaries were summoned to help smooth things over. On leaving the campsite, which we were planning to do anyway the lady seemed to be completely devoid of recollection of her despicable behaviour; all in all a very surreal experience in an otherwise fairly laid back African capital.

Click here for some Cameroon photos… unfortunatley there are none of our favourite camp leader; we were too shocked to take photos and did not want to feel the wrath.

Shot